


New Snow

by sunriseseance



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Brief mentions of sex trafficking, F/F, Fancy Party Infiltration, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, No beta we drown like Quynh, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunriseseance/pseuds/sunriseseance
Summary: Nile knows that New Year’s means very little to her travel companions, realistically, which is a shame because it means everything to her. Means fresh starts and appreciating the old and new snow and friends and family and champagne and putting down one novel and immediately starting a new one getting the plots tangled together in beautiful ways. Means less to the others than birthdays, even. Like, did Scythia even use the Gregorian calendar They’re celebrating tonight, though, in a way. New Year’s with a group whose youngest is her, officially twenty-six, and whose second youngest is nine-hundred and fifty-one. At least they’re doing it in style. If she has to infiltrate a fancy party to assassinate a sex trafficker CEO and his rich friend cronies that the law leaves behind, she might as well do it on New Year’s Eve wearing a goddamn flapper dress.-------Self-indulgent NYE fic because it's my favorite holiday, too.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	New Snow

Nile knows that New Year’s means very little to her travel companions, realistically, which is a shame because it means everything to her. Means fresh starts and appreciating the old and new snow and friends and family and champagne and putting down one novel and immediately starting a new one getting the plots tangled together in beautiful ways. Means less to the others than birthdays, even. Like, did Scythia even use the Gregorian calendar (she answers her own question (also where the hell was Scythia? Andromache sounds Greek, right? Did Andy use a Greek calendar? Life is so much harder without a smartphone. Nile likes knowing shit, and learning shit, and she finds it infuriating to just sit and wonder (doubly infuriating to listen to the others sit and wonder like it’s a fun pass-time and not something that bothers them))). They’re celebrating tonight, though, in a way. New Year’s with a group whose youngest is her, officially twenty-six, and whose second youngest is nine-hundred and fifty-one. At least they’re doing it in style. If she has to infiltrate a fancy party to assassinate a sex trafficker CEO and his rich friend cronies that the law leaves behind, she might as well do it on New Year’s Eve wearing a goddamn flapper dress. 

She smiles as she looks at it, its million gold beads sparkling in the cold morning sunlight. The beams creeping through her window have that harsh, precious white glow that reminds her of home, sometimes, when she lets it (the way that it streamed in through the kitchen, onto Mom’s back, and she’d say something like damn this is only reminding me how cold I am (and Nile would grab a blanket from the couch and wrap it around her shoulders and Mom would hug her and bring her into the blanket too and say something like why are you so good to me or I cannot believe you’re joining the fucking Marines after how we lost your Dad or how could you do this to me or what do you want to do for New Year’s?). She shakes her head. The dress. New years. Say goodbye to the weirdest year of her life so far, and hello to another. Say goodbye to twenty twenty and hello to twenty twenty-one. Think you might see Andy in a dress for the first time ever only for her to scoff and say the whole damn party will be an anachronistic clown show anyways and then pull out a suit with those suit tails that you recognize as distinctly twenties. Fuck yes. 

As beautiful as the dress is in the sunlight, Nile’s little room (once Booker’s little room (poor, stupid bastard (what did he think of New Year’s? (Didn’t the French Calendar do some stupid shit?))) does little to stop the chill of the New York December morning from finding its way to her skin and she hears clinking in the kitchen that invites her forth for warmth and company (and maybe a question and answer session). She finds Nicky humming to himself (or maybe to her (snipey sense she once said (he got it)) and putting a pan on the stove. He’s got out a mess of eggs and veggies and spices that remind Nile that she fell out of a tree during training yesterday and her stomach is feeling it. 

“You’re the first one up” Nicky says without turning around. She can hear a smile in his voice. 

“When am I not?” she replies. The chair that has become hers, the one to the south, wobbles a little bit whenever she sits in it. None of the chairs match. Still, it’s not a cave. She’ll take it. The entire place, furniture included (minus the fridge and the bathrooms), looks to be from the 1800s. Like, the early 1800s (like she’s picturing Nicky in a cowboy hat and it makes her laugh a little bit, which he hears (snipey senses)). 

“You’re in a good mood this morning.” This time he does turn around, and she sees in his eyes that unrelenting, ancient, gentle affection she’s come to see as uniquely his. In his hand, she sees garlic that he peels without looking. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” Good? She keeps getting flashes of being eight, and staying up to watch the ball drop with Mom and Grandma. Or thirteen, when Grandpa let her try some of his champagne and she coughed it out of her nose and swore never to drink again (silly girl). Or going out on the town with friends at twenty one and finding herself in the snow at Midnight, close to freezing and yet careless. Or anything that isn’t people who are too old to count time in years. 

Nicky seems to sense her muddled emotions, because he squints at her a little bit before saying “something is on your mind.” 

“Yeah, I guess so” Nile repeats, causing Nicky to offer up one of his little smiles. 

“Tell me.” It’s a request. Nile knows that. She also knows if she tells him, then he’ll try to do something about it, and she doesn’t know if she wants that. Besides, they have a sex trafficker and a bunch of pedos to kill tonight. 

“I was wondering if y’all ever celebrate New Years?” Oh. Guess she does want that. 

He thinks for a moment, turning back to the cutting board to chop the garlic with graceful, quick, accurate knife movements that can only come from being the world’s oldest chef. 

“No. Not on purpose, of course, but we don’t really celebrate anything, Nile. I could not even tell you my own birthday anymore. Or anything beyond the season of when Yusuf and I fell in love. Though that had more to do with aimless wandering and losing track of time. No New Year’s. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I figured. A year must feel like a second when you’re almost a thousand. Let alone Andy.” She did figure. She woke up figuring this would be just another job for them and she would be celebrating in her own quiet way. 

“Yes and no” he grabs a tomato “sometimes the time passes quickly, as you say, sometimes everything feels very, very long. Nothing is insignificant, Nile. Not any year, or any second, even. Perhaps it would do us some good to celebrate New Year’s, to remind us of that. Even if, yes, a year does begin to look rather small in the company of a thousand others.” And there he was, doing that. Sensing that New Year’s is special to her and offering to help. God damn him. She can’t help the smile that sneaks onto her face. 

“New Year’s is my favorite holiday” she says in reply. An invitation. He pauses briefly before answering. 

“I must admit that I gathered as much. It’s an interesting choice.” He grabs a tomato that knows not its fate. Nicky asks questions by stating things.

“I just like how it feels old and new at the same time, you know? Like you’re saying goodbye to a year right as you’re saying hello to one. And you hang with friends and family. And I like the weather.” Nile continues talking even as Joe walks in. He steals a slice of tomato and receives a hand slap in return before joining Nile at the table. 

“You have me on everything but the last part” he says, before groaning, slumping his shoulders, getting up, and making coffee “you’re getting forgetful in your old age, love of my life.”

“My synapses are still thirty. You make it better” Nicky says before turning to face Nile with those damn sincere, ancient eyes “I know we are somewhat busy tonight, Nile, but I am certain we could find a way to enjoy ourselves at the party, if you would like? Or after?” 

She thinks for a moment. Not everything can remain purely in her old life, huh? She has to bring some things over. 

“What the Hell. I’m in” and then a quiet, deeply meant “thank you.”

“What are we in for?” Andy asks as she comes to the table, her hair still sticking up at all angles. Joe told Nile, one morning when Andy didn’t join them until half past eleven, that she didn’t sleep like this before. That this is new. Nile could see how it made his heart hurt (and could feel it herself). 

“Celebrating the passage of time” Nicky replies, before Nile can. 

“That eager to be rid of me huh?” She says with a smile. 

“That eager to celebrate the time we have left with you.” This time the reply comes from Joe, in a saccharine voice that causes Andy to roll her eyes. 

“Nile likes New Year’s, we’re going to a New Year’s party, it will not be hard to celebrate.” Nicky’s eyes could break down anyone, and Andy doesn’t really try because Nicky pulled the Nile is Sad card that’ll work until everyone forgets about Booker. 

“You tell her about the last time we celebrated New Year’s?” Joe asks, and Nile perks up, as hungry for a story as she is for the omelettes that Nicky has finally started actually cooking. 

“We’ve never celebrated New Year’s” Nicky replies. 

“Evidently, I was right about your memory. New Orleans, 1920s. Host of the party had a pool literally filled with champagne” Joe presses a kiss to the back of Nicky’s neck. 

“I… had forgotten. We were there to kill a man and his compatriots for trafficking. So similar. I cannot believe I forgot.” 

“Not the owner with the champagne pool, who was an idiot and a fantastic homosexual. Loved that guy” Andy adds. 

“One question” Nile says, but they all know it will be many, many more than that. Their eyes signal that she can continue “did Andy wear a dress?”

##  ________________________________________________________________

Whenever possible, Andrea avoided dresses. Still, they were meant to fit in so she should do her damn best and that meant a short, sparkling, clacking black dress. Also lipstick. And a headpiece with a goddamn feather. She might actually kill Yusuf for that one, and he might actually forgive her. Why people welcomed, celebrated even, another goddamn year would never make sense to Andrea (that was a lie (it had once (it had drowned (over and over again)))), but it meant a crowd to blend into, drunk targets, and fun to be had in the aftermath so who was she to complain?

Yusuf and Nicolò looked plenty dashing in their blue and black suits with the coat tails that Andrea had come to envy. Le Livre, the Book, the horrible mess he always was, came in with his shirt wrinkled and half buttoned and his hair still falling into his face. She sighed. They were already late, and she found it unlikely he was to be the only ruffled drunkard at the party. Still. 

“Weapons?” She said, when they were all before her. 

She receives a chorus of Yes Bosses in return, and it makes her smile in spite of herself. Nicolò held a viola case with his rifle inside, along with several knives in several places, and a pistol tucked under his shirt . Yusuf went for the more standard option of a small pistol and a knife, confident in his ability to make do. Le Livre, in his infinite effort to be more of a mess than her, stuffed a gun down the front of his pants and called it good. None of their first weapons today, as much as the rich of New Orleans might drool over an ancient labrys, the idea was to not attract attention. 

When she tunes back in to the conversation, as they walk the bustling streets, she hears Nicolò saying “Le Livre, you heard us when we told you that this immortality can end. Someday you might find that out by a gun going off in your pants.” 

“You’re asking if I want to shoot my cock off, Nicolò?” There was no real venom in it. He was amused. 

“He’s asking if you want to shoot your cock off  _ again _ , and have it remain off for the rest of your life” Yusuf says. 

“People will think we’re insane” Andrea says, almost in spite of herself, the energy from the crowds around her getting to her head. They’re excited about the passage of time. 

“We are” Nicolò replies. It makes her laugh. It makes them all laugh. Something feels good, in all this. Even in spite of the dress. 

Andrea knew decadence. Truly she did, but upon walking up to the gates of the French Colonial mansion and seeing that they were dipped in gold, she found herself briefly back in the time when she first traveled to India and saw colors she never thought possible. Then she saw the pool, sees people swimming in Champagne, and she laughs again. 

“Joseph, Nicholas, you two are on Duchamp, Rollins, and Kennings. Le Livre and I are gonna get Gagnon and Tremblay. We meet back at this pool at Midnight, and we swim.” That gave them two hours to get their marks alone and then get them very, very dead. Cutting it close, but god damn it, Andrea wanted to swim (Andrea did not want to celebrate the passage of time, but she did want to acknowledge it). 

For their parts, Yusuf and Nicolò used the same trap twice. Yusuf lures a man to a remote part of the garden, Nicolò shoots him, nobody notices. Without a hitch. Their third proved more difficult, though, requiring Joe to bring out his little knife in a bathroom and wait until Nicolò could clear the way. Two hours and six minutes, getting them to the pool just before midnight. 

Andrea and Le Livre, though, met trouble named Romeo Dubois. He owned the place, and the hearts of the six men dangling off of his arm or orbiting around him, and he immediately clocked Andrea and Le Livre as too fascinating to leave the fuck alone. He swatted away the beautiful men that impeded his movement, and made his way over. Andrea could feel her eyes rolling. 

“It’s a lovely place, no?” he asked, the Cajun accent thick on his tongue. 

“Very beautiful” Andrea replied, because yes, it is, and she was trying not to stick out. She noted the rich lighting and the deep red curtains and the wood-and-marble floors. She noted all of the art and the fucking gold that would’ve kept her (and Yusuf and Nicolò (and someone else)) from starving across the years. She wanted to hate this man that fills his pool with champagne to celebrated the passage of time. 

“I could say the same for your… companion, if he dressed a little better.” And, okay, Andrea should not have laughed, but Le Livre didn’t earn that length of glare “it looks like he’s… well endowed, too.” 

Oh fuck. He knew they were armed. 

“We mean you no trouble. Your party attracted exactly the right wrong people. We’ll do it silently and be out of your hair.” No champagne swim after all. Damn. Back to moping about the passage of time. 

“Oh you cannot think that will be enough to satisfy me. Look at the party I’m throwing. Tell me more.” Andrea bit her tongue until, for only a second. She tasted blood. 

“I’m afraid we cannot” Le Livre said, looking just as eager as Andrea to exit the conversation. 

“Well then how do you expect me to help you?” Romeo replied, running a hand through his hair. 

“We don’t need help.” Andrea could kill every floozie here. 

“But I want to.” Spoiled brat. 

“Tough cookies.” 

“What if I get you kicked out.” Has nobody ever said no to him? 

“Then I kill you right now.” 

“I can think of worse ways to go. Quite a story. Assassinated at my own party by a flapper hitwoman.” He lays his hand on his chest. 

“You’re not important enough for assassination. It’d just be murder.” Andrea should bite her tongue. 

“Still a good story. Tell me, kill me, or get kicked out.” 

“You are insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.” He smiled. Andrea was losing time. He had won and he knew it.

“Arthur Gagnon and Agustin Tremblay. Traffickers in their spare time. They’re here.” 

“I know them. I did not know…” And for the first time, it looked as though Andrea had found the human core to the unshakable Romeo. 

“They hide it on purpose. You couldn’t be expected to. They want, you know, good company so they don’t look so suspicious.” She offered him a pat on the shoulder, and almost scoffed when her hands met the finest silk she had ever felt. Fucking of coutse. 

“You must let me right my wrong. Let me help.” Son of a bitch. Probably literally, looking at the son she raised. 

“Absolutely not. We don’t need help.” Andrea had the third oldest man in the world by her side, and the first and second oldest as backup if anything went wrong. 

“Do you even know what they look like?” His half smile was back. 

“I’ve seen pictures.” She had. Not a lie. 

“Tremblay shaved his beard. He’s unrecognizable now.” 

“Thank you for the heads up. You’ve helped now.”

“I can help more.”

“You can help by not talking.”

“Let me help by luring them into a room where you two are and then you kill them.” 

And Andrea found her lips agreeing in spite of her. He walked the pair through the party, up a marble staircase, and to a beautiful bedroom with the largest, reddest, most four-posted bed Andrea had ever seen. Firsts even in her late sixth millenia. The rest of the room was as draped in velvet as the actual bed, the curtains, the chairs for sitting by the fire, the runners on the bookcases (deep walnut to match the bed). To top it all off, literally, four strips of velvet crested the ceiling, culminating in a crystal chandelier. Andy found herself laughing again, and Booker sat himself on the bed, head in hands. 

“Isn’t it simply fantastic?” Romeo asked, before adding “for all purposes.”

“It’ll let us do our job.” 

When Romeo returned he had both men with him, drunk and disoriented. Andrea did not expect this. She also did not expect Romeo to lock the door and throw the key out the window and yell at the men about how they were deplorable bastards, horrific human beings, how crimes such as cocaine that hurt nobody were different than the depravity to which they sunk, that he knew exactly what they did and how they did it, and that now they would face justice at the hands of the Avenging Flapper and her sidekick Frazzleman. She did expect it when she had to jump up and take a bullet for him. Men like this didn’t come to parties unarmed. 

She pushed Romeo onto the bed, and hoped he had the good sense to dive under. Thank the Gods he threw the key out so the men were stuck with them. Le Livre took out his own gun and fired a shot out, frankly, in entirely the wrong direction and at first Andrea was angry, beyond angry, but then she saw the mirror shattering in front of her, and pushed the fight, now intense and close and physical, onto the ground. She would get over mirror cuts quickly, and her fight partner lost his thick coat to the heat of the party at some point. His thin shirt cut easily, and was red with blood quick enough. This threw him, and his partner, into a frenzy. Shots rang out from all directions and Andrea yearned for her labrys, for how easy it would be to cut them down and be done with it. 

Cut them Down. Andrea smiled. Like the border collie she’d once grown so fond of, Andrea herded the two men to the area beneath Romeo’s authentic crystal, authentically heavy chandelier, an easy task given their frenzy, and she shot the chain holding it up. It crashed down, killing all three of them instantly. 

When Andrea woke, it was to Le Livre struggling with the chandelier and Romeo sobbing, hopelessly sobbing, on his bed. She blinked a few times, allowing her eyes to refocus, catching them on the beautiful way the blood shone on the crystals (the guts? Not so much). 

“I’m sorry about your chandelier” Andrea said, causing Romeo to look up. 

“H-how?” was the first word out of his mouth and then “I am so grateful, but how?” 

“I have my secrets. This one you won't pester out of me.” She helped Le Livre lift where she could, once her arms were sufficiently free. 

“That is fair.” Oh. Andrea was not expecting that. 

“I really am sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that.” 

“I asked for it and I--I mean you’re fine, God bless ya, so no harm done.” Which was the last genuine sentence Andrea heard him say. “So how can I repay you?” 

She thought for a moment.

“You can keep real quiet about all this, forever, and you can let me and my friends swim in your pool.” 

“There’s more of you? You know what? Never mind. You have my word, and my word is glorious.” 

They swam, and ate, and drank, and chatted with interesting and boring people alike, and counted backwards from ten, and marked the passage of time, and stumbled home at five in the morning to a brand new year, and it was good. 

##  __________________________________________________________

“I can’t believe you never even met that Romeo guy” Nile says, as Joe’s careful artist hands zip her into her (fully authentic, from the twenties (what the fuck)) dress. 

“Nicky didn’t even believe it happened until Andy found a crystal from the chandelier in her hidden pocket. She still has it.” He pats her back to signal that he’s done, and she can get on to the next step:makeup. Deep red lips and gold eyeshadow. 

When she takes a second look at them, she realizes they’re wearing the same outfits from that night all those years ago. It makes her laugh. She feels lighter, now, than in the morning, excited for a night out and a new year (and some very very bad people gone forever). 

“What have I done now?” Joe asks.

“Well, I have it on good authority that you’ve worn that suit before.” Nile fashions the little feather headpiece over her hair and, damn, she looks good. 

“If it ain’t broke” Joe says with a shrug. 

“Nile, this decade suits you” Nicky says. 

“I always liked the music. The politics though…” She laughs again at Joe’s crinkled face.

“Yes, we certainly had our own issues with it as well.” Nicky pets a hand down Joe’s shoulder, and something clicks into place for Nile. 

“Oh my god. You two have never done the midnight New Year’s kiss thing.” A statement-question, she realizes. 

“We have not” Joe says. He looks Nile in the eye, clearly seeing the devious sparkle. 

“Well this year you’re gonna fix that. Understood?” Marine voice. That’s what Mom called it. 

“Yes ma’am” Joe replies with a laugh. Nicky offers her a little smile. They aren’t usually super affectionate in front of her, let alone kissing. She hasn’t asked why. 

When Andy walks in the room, Nile feels her heart stop and her jaw hit the floor. Some suits were made for people, some people were made for suits, and Nile sees in front of her the first and only example of both. She’s got her hair slicked back, the stupid tails, the white bow tie, all of it, and she looks like the outfit was invented for her. 

“I thought the point was to fit in, Andy” Nile says. She gets an Andy Smile as a reward, and it even turns into an Andy Laugh. 

“Compliments don’t get you out of training.” 

“I told Nicky he had pretty eyes and he made me do five extra minutes with the dirk.” 

“Good for him.” 

“Weapons all ready?” 

Nile smiles at the chorus of Yes Bosses. 

The drive from upstate New York to the city takes two and a half hours of laughter and quiet car chatting and even some music, when the ancient radio cooperates (is it stupid to call the radio ancient when a woman older than Christ operates it?). At home, she’d be cooking dinner with Mom to prepare for the evening, or thinking about when to start getting ready to go out. Now she’s thinking about how best to slip some slow-acting poison into a trafficker’s drink and laughing with crusaders about just how fucking weird it is that Jason Derulo thought Cats would change the world (hoping he doesn’t share the drink with anyone (worrying about what else she’ll have to feel in the new year)). 

Although on the outside the high-rise looks minimalist and modern, the inside matches her sparkly idealized twenties perfectly. It’s all decadence and hedonism and gold and beads and she mourns, briefly, every time she has to close her eyes to blink. This is new. She should remember to celebrate new. 

Unlike poor Andrea of the last immortally celebrated New Year’s, their plan goes off without a hitch. Each mark drinks their death sentence down to the final drop (and doesn’t share it with anyone) and they have several hours to midnight. Nile intends to use them. 

Dancing. She likes dancing. She knows dancing. She knows how her body feels when it dances (though the burn is gone, now (does she miss it?)). She gets the others to join her, to show her the dances as they were at the time, and she smiles into their compliments at how fast she learns this, how fast she learns everything. 

Drinking. Right. Champagne. It’s fucking New Year’s. According to Nicky, who doesn’t actually care, who learned it from Booker (said softly, with sad eyes), who would drink it anyways, champagne is only champagne if it comes from Champagne, in France. So this is probably more like California. It still tastes good, though. 

New Year’s Resolutions. All of you. Go. No cop outs. She smiles when they smile at her for saying this, now comfortably secluded at a table in a corner, tipsy, tired, and warm in a way that feels similar to other New Year’s, but new. A whole lotta new. Joe says he’s going to watch less TV. Nicky says he’s going to be more conscious of all of his blessings. Joe asks if he can have two. Nile says yes. Joe says he’s going to pay better attention to people that might need him. Nile says she’s going to keep her heart fiercely loving and her mind strong but open. Andy pauses for a moment, then two, then says she is going to celebrate the passage of time. 

Ten.

They look startled at first had it been so long?

Nine. 

Joe and Nicky remember their promise. 

Eight. 

Joe and Nicky look at Nile as if to ask if they actually must do this, but they’re smiling.

Seven.

Nile looks at them as if to say yes, you must, Nile is Sad, but she’s smiling too. 

Six.

They stand up, and cross to each other. 

Five. 

Nicky says this feels silly.

Four. 

Joe says to consider it a way to start off a year of appreciating the passage of time. 

Three.

Nile misses home.

Two. 

Nile misses her dad. 

One. 

Nile loves these people. 

Happy new year!   
She watches them kiss, and it’s weird, and a little awkward, and really sweet because they’re gentle, but passionate, and it’s almost like they invented the act. And it’s sweeter still because they’re kissing in public and they don’t do that, and it’s all for her, they’re only still here for her. She could write a confusing mess of a novel about how it feels to lose one family and gain a new one. 

Happy New Year. She looks forward. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> HIYA! This is my first TOG fic! 
> 
> I chose to address them by the names I think the POV character would call them in their heads. 
> 
> If you wanna come chat, I'm sunriseseance on Tumblr as well!!


End file.
